Three Hundred Years isn't that Long (But Sometimes it Is)
by helloyesimhere
Summary: Three hundred years isn't that long, not to them (but sometimes it is).


**I don't own Rise of the Guardians. This fic is for entertainment purposes only.**

 **Brought to you by sleep/sleep deprivation, tons of parenthesis, and an overabundance of italics**

 **This is dedicated to my best friend, who inspires me in many ways.**

 **No warnings are applicable, except major angst.**

 **Reviews would be awesome and much appreciated!**

 **EDIT: 1/27/16 a couple words replaced that I missed the first couple times I looked this over. No plot changes whatsoever.**

* * *

Three hundred years isn't that long, they tell themselves. It's just the blink of an eye to them.

Three hundred years isn't that long, he tells himself when the smile shatters and splinters, but just for a moment because really who needs pain when it can all be brushed off with _happiness_ and _fun_ and _laughter_ and pretending that _it doesn't matter_. But he thinks that just because he is frozen as a child doesn't mean that he can act like one (and he ignores the hurt in the blue eyes under the snow-white hair when he tells the child-but-not to grow up), but he offers cocoa and cookies (that aren't enough, are never enough) but sometimes (most times) doesn't pay attention because, really, three hundred years isn't that long.

* * *

Three hundred years isn't _that_ long, it's just a blink of the eye, especially to someone that's lived as long as he has. He's seen his entire tribe wiped out, suffered _heartbreak_ and _pain_ and _what does this frosty child know about things like that_ (but he forgets that he had people to help him through those times). So when the facade slips and something that's _hurt_ and _neglected_ and _why do they ignore me what did I do whywhywhy_ leaks out, he reminds himself that three hundred years isn't that long and the one with the frost and the staff isn't the one that has suffered, not really.

* * *

Three hundred years isn't that long. Not to someone who has hundreds of little versions of themselves (that are basically little sisters) to talk to and have help her and because she's not _alone_ , not _ignored_ , but she doesn't realize the part about versions of herself, she just thinks about the three hundred years part and how the person behind the teeth (and sometimes all she sees is the teeth) is being just a little _sensitive_ because three hundred years really isn't that long.

* * *

Three hundred years _really isn't_ that long. Not when he was a star, and the oldest one. Not when he can't remember a time that he didn't have _someone_ to talk to and share words and gestures and perhaps, just _perhaps_ physical touch with. Not when he can put his hand on someone's shoulder, have them actually _touch_ and _see_ and _hear_ him (even if he can't speak, they can still hear him and he know that it still counts). And so he tells himself that three hundred years isn't actually that long and he shouldn't feel bad about the amount of excitement in those bright blue eyes and the blinding (but happy, so _happy_ ) smile when he claps him on the shoulder. Because three hundred years isn't that long.

* * *

Three hundred years isn't that long, he tells himself. He asks himself that what reason does he have to complain? Because they've been there longer, and _yes_ they've had people the whole time (and not just people if you count not just other spirits but yetis and eggs and little sisters and basically everyone to _listen_ ), but doesn't that just mean that they were obviously _better_ and _more deserving,_ and he doesn't know _why_ , but it just have been _something_ because why else would he have had _no one_? And so he tells himself that now that he has people that will _listen_ (even if he is sometimes brushed aside because they are busy (even if they always seem to be busy when he is nearby, surely it isn't intentional, _right?_ )), people that _talk_ to him (even if most of the times it's a reminder to _don't break something-don't mess this up-bother someone else right now, I'm very busy,_ surely that just means that they want everyone to talk to him, _right?_ ), people that will show him physical affection (because that's what it is when they touch his shoulder for a moment to say thanks for doing something, because that touch as they walked by was intentional and not just an accidental touch, because they're just joking when they complain that he's always _so cold,_ and they actually do care even if it's just once in a very long while, _right?_ ). And so that's what he tells himself when he thinks that they don't _listen to_ , don't _talk to_ , don't _care about,_ about him. Because three hundred years isn't that long. (Except when it is).

* * *

And that's what they all tell themselves when they see the dejected droop of his shoulders or the laugh that is obviously forced. That's what he tells himself when he feels rejected and lonely and _alone_. That's what they all tell themselves until the day when they had to go somewhere hot (very hot but if you asked any of them where it was or why they went there they wouldn't remember because that wasn't the important part), and then the cold one that they had all forgotten was very susceptible to that (except him, he hadn't forgotten about it, but _maybe_ if he went, _maybe_ they would see that he could do things right too and they would say _good job_ or give him a pat on the back or _something_ ) went and fainted in the room with the fire and then the elves went and got the one that was normally jolly (but right then he wasn't). And they all gathered around and thought that maybe the snow would help, and so they picked him up and started walking outside. But then he woke up and started _pleading_ (please no I'll be good I won't say anything I won't ask for anything please don't make me go _pleasepleaseplease_ ) and _almost_ (but not quite) _crying_ and suddenly they remembered _three hundred years_.

* * *

And so if they brought him inside and they filled a tub with snow instead, there was nobody to question it. And perhaps they took turns waiting so there was _always_ someone there by him (and perhaps they all stayed sometimes and listened to his half-pleading half-crying and his _please don't make me leave I don't want to be alone again please_ ).

* * *

And when he was better, if they started talking to him more, and listening more, and _caring_ more, well, there was no one to say anything on the matter. And when they noticed that the person behind the frosty staff seemed happier and more cheerful and (and like he felt appreciated and like people cared for real and _not alone_ ) seemed to smile (real smiles) more, a little of the guilt went away (but not all because that was going to take a _very long time_ ).

* * *

And if he noticed them doing it, why would he complain? He accepted it and told himself that they were just adjusting to him and now they were adjusted (and he believed it and it was a good thing that he did because he didn't deserve any more sorrow about that). And so he didn't feel quite so (unloved, like nobody cared for him) alone.

* * *

Because they realized that, while three hundred years isn't that long, sometimes it is.


End file.
